some misgivings, as I say, about the sterility of the house when I leased it, but I did do my best, although home decoration is not my natural preserve. When I look around me now I can see that the coffee table might benefit from a strategically placed bowl, that a throw might soften the chesterfield, that the regimental order of this capacious desk could be relieved by a knickknack or two. But most of the time I remain in a state of grace, accepting my intimate surroundings as if they had been ordained from on high.
By the time of my third, no, my fourth, visit, she had wrought some feminine transformation, and—I was glad to see—kept the menagerie as well. I did have four stays at that house. The first was when I set up the rental, the second when I took her there, the third when I returned after the funeral, and the fourth when I went back in November and, after her recuperation from the surgery, took her to the Promised Land. The third time was the most fraught, though each visit was not without its challenges.
I had done what I could to protect her by removing the television set from the house. Although it is a favorite trope of the thriller writer, watching one’s own funeral cannot be psychologically healthy; watching one’s children in attendance would be enough to drive anyone over the edge. Had she imagined that scene while we were planning her escape? I think, most certainly, she had not. Toward the end she was so hunted and haunted and desperate, and there was a part of her mind—wherein the boys were safely stowed and sacrosanct—that was simply unreachable.
After the funeral I called her on the prepaid mobile I had purchased for her. She begged me to bring as many press cuttings from London as possible. I counseled against it. She called me back later, although we had agreed to keep calls strictly to the necessary minimum, and this time commanded me to do as I was told. For someone who has “the common touch” she can be quite startlingly imperious on occasion. “Lawrence,” she said, “I am not your prisoner. You can’t keep me in the dark.” I said she most certainly was not my prisoner, that she was free to do as she pleased. She said, “I shall do as I please, Lawrence, and it pleases me to tell you to bring those cuttings with you, as many as you can manage in your suitcase.”
She has always been a press junkie, particularly a tabloid addict, right from the early days, and that was both a strength and a weakness. I would have denied her access to her swan song had she not countermanded, but would that have been right? In any case, the coverage probably penetrated even to the darkest jungles of Borneo, and my shielding would have been partial at best. I took as much as I could reasonably carry along with my clothes.
Her initial response, on riffling through the newspapers and magazines, was as I had expected. I may have “saved” her from watching it on television but the pictures were there in full-color spreads. The boys walking with whey-faced bravery behind the hearse; the coffin, which was said (though no palace official confirmed it) to contain one of her outfits, chosen by them; and on top of the casket, a single word, spelled out in white flowers— Mummy .
Is it possible to die of grief ? Apparently not. Were it possible, she would have achieved it that day.
26 January 1998
Her overwhelming grief. I record it for the sake of this process. And this process now does seem entirely necessary to me, this fleeting document more essential and sustaining than the array of pills in my bedside cabinet. I record it but I shall not dwell on it, just as, when she was able to hear me again, I pressed on her repeatedly the importance of not dwelling on their pain. The young do heal and mend. I said, You mustn’t track their progress incessantly, you mustn’t stalk them from afar. If you do, I told her, don’t feel resentful when you see them happy, smiling and thriving in the fullness
By the time of my third, no, my fourth, visit, she had wrought some feminine transformation, and—I was glad to see—kept the menagerie as well. I did have four stays at that house. The first was when I set up the rental, the second when I took her there, the third when I returned after the funeral, and the fourth when I went back in November and, after her recuperation from the surgery, took her to the Promised Land. The third time was the most fraught, though each visit was not without its challenges.
I had done what I could to protect her by removing the television set from the house. Although it is a favorite trope of the thriller writer, watching one’s own funeral cannot be psychologically healthy; watching one’s children in attendance would be enough to drive anyone over the edge. Had she imagined that scene while we were planning her escape? I think, most certainly, she had not. Toward the end she was so hunted and haunted and desperate, and there was a part of her mind—wherein the boys were safely stowed and sacrosanct—that was simply unreachable.
After the funeral I called her on the prepaid mobile I had purchased for her. She begged me to bring as many press cuttings from London as possible. I counseled against it. She called me back later, although we had agreed to keep calls strictly to the necessary minimum, and this time commanded me to do as I was told. For someone who has “the common touch” she can be quite startlingly imperious on occasion. “Lawrence,” she said, “I am not your prisoner. You can’t keep me in the dark.” I said she most certainly was not my prisoner, that she was free to do as she pleased. She said, “I shall do as I please, Lawrence, and it pleases me to tell you to bring those cuttings with you, as many as you can manage in your suitcase.”
She has always been a press junkie, particularly a tabloid addict, right from the early days, and that was both a strength and a weakness. I would have denied her access to her swan song had she not countermanded, but would that have been right? In any case, the coverage probably penetrated even to the darkest jungles of Borneo, and my shielding would have been partial at best. I took as much as I could reasonably carry along with my clothes.
Her initial response, on riffling through the newspapers and magazines, was as I had expected. I may have “saved” her from watching it on television but the pictures were there in full-color spreads. The boys walking with whey-faced bravery behind the hearse; the coffin, which was said (though no palace official confirmed it) to contain one of her outfits, chosen by them; and on top of the casket, a single word, spelled out in white flowers— Mummy .
Is it possible to die of grief ? Apparently not. Were it possible, she would have achieved it that day.
26 January 1998
Her overwhelming grief. I record it for the sake of this process. And this process now does seem entirely necessary to me, this fleeting document more essential and sustaining than the array of pills in my bedside cabinet. I record it but I shall not dwell on it, just as, when she was able to hear me again, I pressed on her repeatedly the importance of not dwelling on their pain. The young do heal and mend. I said, You mustn’t track their progress incessantly, you mustn’t stalk them from afar. If you do, I told her, don’t feel resentful when you see them happy, smiling and thriving in the fullness
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